


Experiential

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-21
Updated: 2011-07-21
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only mutant in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experiential

**Author's Note:**

> Features what could be construed as suicidal thoughts.

The plane is full of squalling children and families and large men with suitcases and women with large hats and even larger bosoms. The stewardesses bring him beer when he asks for it, kowtowing to him as he can speak their language and he’s dressed impeccably and there aren’t many people flying first class from Buenos Aires this early in the morning.

He drinks his beer and sits up straight, his thin linen jacket laid over the seat next to him, the simple briefcase light; he only carries a few things, nothing to identify himself with. He has multiple passports, plenty of cash, and a wealth of knowledge of any place he’s headed.

He had a lot of time to learn things when he was living in the camp. Sometimes it wasn’t what the doctor wanted him to learn, but he picked up things here and there and stored the knowledge away, mechanical typeset letters on a plain piece of paper, information, useful and not, things he kept, never discarding anything.

Never forgetting _anything_.

Taut as a bowstring, straight and tall, he sips his beer and thinks on his prize. He’s not sure how he should feel now that he’s close; an end to the chase. He’s found the registration for the boat, knows it’s in Miami, knows Shaw will be there. _Has_ to be there. He could be surrounded by an army and he will get to Shaw, will find him, will take out the wickedly sharp knife he’d procured in a small alley in a tiny city with no name (a sweaty, sullied place; he had spent a good while washing his hands as he stared into the mirror, speaking his lines, remembering what he would say to the doctor when he found him, smiling his predator’s slash of a grin).

He slides a hand down the sharp crease in his pants and stares at his foot, clad in expensive Italian loafers. He has plenty of money, plenty of resources, plenty of whatever he needs – he learned how to do that too in the camps. The doctor taught him well.

And yet the foot shakes as they fly into the afternoon, destination closer and closer, and he can’t seem to make it stop. He cocks his head, watching his foot jiggle and move with nerves; it dances, a broken, stringless puppet that he can’t control or force to bend to his will.  
Fascinating, really. Everything else is perfect, save this one thing.

His hand slaps over the leather of the shoe, making a squeaking noise only he can hear over the roar of the airplane engine, the sun sparkling off the thick glass at his side. There’s a child in the back of the plane screaming, and he wonders if he can shut it up before the parent does something –

He blinks and his foot has stopped moving.

Calm and order and the goal.

He knows his plan is sketchy at best, but he’s got the wetsuit and the knife and he’s got the ideal in mind and it’s just him and his end to a mean and that’s all that matters. Nothing but the goal – the doctor – matters or has mattered for a very long time.

He’s an empty shell, a husk, a dried out piece of fruit left to rot in the sun, a carcass no one needs to carry off because there’s nothing left worth saving. He knows this, and it still doesn’t matter. The end is on its way, and for a brief nanosecond (sometimes more than once a day, now) he is happy about this, so happy he can barely contain it. That’s when any metal around him does what he says, rising from the ground or off a counter or from his pockets or at the table he’s seated at – and he can hardly stand himself, for the joy that radiates at the thought _this will be over soon._

He can see his family; ask their forgiveness for not being able to save them. For what good is a power like his if he can’t use it when he needs to the most?

After those moments, he wonders sometimes if his aloofness, if the wall of metal he can raise is enough protection from the outside world that _doesn’t_ include him killing Shaw. And then he laughs and remembers there isn’t such a place. Once the goal is achieved, it doesn’t matter what the world thinks of him, because once the goal is achieved, he can drift away into the nothingness that already resides inside. And that place is the only place he can finally find the quiet without the walls he’s such an expert at building.

Once, a few months ago, he’d found himself staring into a mirror in a random hotel (Geneva, yes) and realizing he was crying. The simple black bathrobe made his face stark and lined and his eyes bright, brighter than he’d thought they were (he really wished he had dark eyes; these were too ‘special’ and kept him from truly being able to blend in). Tears trembled on the edges of his lashes, each one reflecting his image as he looked deeper into the mirror, thousands upon thousands of his face, twisted and empty and _I’m alone._

He wiped the tears off his face and the mirror cracked as he stared at it again, the iron frame around it folding like a piece of ancient paper torn from a book no one had ever bothered to read.

The plane lands in Miami and he departs, the flight attendants waving sweetly and speaking the platitudes he’s used to hearing. His light briefcase is easy to carry, the knife hidden inside a special pocket, the wetsuit weighing next to nothing. He tucks any cash he needs into his jacket, and his hat goes on his head, the brim lowering enough to cover the bright (too expressive; the failing he can’t fix) eyes.

The people around him slow to a crawl, greeting their families, hugging, kissing, words of love and devotion passing between them as they join together in reunion. He passes through, invisible, a tiny, airless ghost that maybe only one or two of the warm blooded people might feel – they shiver and get out of his way.

Some might say he’s angry, terribly angry, seeking revenge for his losses.

In truth Erik Lehnsherr is merely empty, a gun pointed at a heart, his desire the bullet.

Some days he wonders if this truth should be sad to him. Some days the refrain of _I’m alone_ is the only thing he can hear, see, or feel. It beats a staccato rhythm into his brain, the tissue red and throbbing with the power of the basic emotion.

He drowns it with plans and gradually, on those dark days, is able to finally see the path again.

The boat is anchored close to the coast, and he slips the wetsuit on, sliding the knife into a sheath he’s tied around his left calf. The sun has set, and he can see the yacht glowing like a torch, the fire of the lights making the water that bobs around it glow and turn colors he doesn’t think there’s a name for.

He looks up at the sky, the stars blinking innocently down on him, and the throbbing starts up _I’m alone I’m alone I’m alone_ -

He dives into the water, soundless, slipping between the waves, black on black. Cold surrounds him and the pounding of his brain gradually returns to its normal state – the husk, undivided, strong, _mutant._ Alone.

The ladder is there, and he does not stop to think as he climbs aboard.


End file.
